* * *
Anderson waved again at the camera, feeling a little foolish, but realising that the longer it took before someone responded the better – that should mean those sharing the night-time vigil were fairly busy, so they might not be following the image from his room too closely.
It was now too risky to assume Charlotte would be left alone and in the morning she would doubtless force Rebane’s hand by ignoring the invitation to Warsaw. Or, knowing Charlotte, she might well do something impulsive and make Rebane act immediately. Somehow, Anderson had to make things more difficult for Rebane in the hope he would be encouraged to move his focus elsewhere and away from Charlotte. And he had to do it soon.
For the last few hours, Anderson had trodden a tricky line, trying to convince everyone he was no threat by acting out the frightened wreck of a man. Anderson feared it might not be that far from the truth, and there was also the danger his liability index might increase as a consequence, reducing the time before someone decided he was an unnecessary and unwelcome burden. However, Anderson had his plan, and he was determined to stick to it.
There was still no response to his wave, and Anderson tried yet again with both arms – surely one of the computer nerds could have come up with something better than Anderson having to wave himself silly in order to have a piss. Still it all helped to calm his nerves.
Anderson ran through in his mind the next few minutes: if McDowell turned up to temporarily release Anderson, then he would try again in a couple of hours; anyone of smaller stature and Anderson would opt for something rather more violent – he just hoped he was brave enough to follow it through. Most likely it would either be Laurel or Hardy – Anderson’s chosen names for McDowell’s two associates from the cottage: one tall and thin, one rather more rotund. Other than that, it was a poor comparison as both were English rather than just Laurel, and neither were particularly funny. Anderson had seen or heard at least six other residents, and he presumed they were mostly computer experts, with McDowell, Laurel and Hardy providing security.
Whenever any of the three turned up to deal with Anderson, it was always with gun in hand, although Anderson’s pathetic demeanour was starting to make them rather less guarded. As a commercial pilot, Anderson had received some training in the use of handguns, and securing a semi-automatic from one of his chaperones was high on his list of priorities. McDowell’s gun was not one Anderson recognised, but both Laurel and Hardy used what looked to be a Glock. That meant there was no need to fully cock the pistol before firing the first round, the process of simply chambering a round – or racking the slide – partially cocking the hammer; the safety was also integrated within the trigger, rather than being a separate lever. Even if it wasn’t a Glock, Anderson assumed any other pistol would be pretty similar; if not, then he’d just have to have to wing it and hope for the best.
Anderson’s one advantage over his jailers was the small size of his room: the en-suite of shower and toilet was adjacent to the door, leaving a short corridor, then a space roughly nine feet by eight for bed, wardrobe, chair and dressing-table. The door to the en-suite faced the opposite wall of the corridor, and was some four feet from the entrance door. Anderson’s guard could thus never be more than a few feet away. When he’d first used the bathroom, even though the door was left open, someone would always check it after – but now they didn’t seem bothered. Nor did they appear concerned about the TV, which was as loud as Anderson dared, despite him opting for whatever programme made the most noise. Bruce Willis was presently eliminating most of a gang of cyber terrorists in Die Hard 4.0, something which Anderson could only empathise with.
He stood up to wave for a fifth time, but abruptly the room door opened and a familiar figure entered; despite his fears, Anderson almost smiled, thankful it was Laurel and not someone twice his size.
“Sorry, I was getting desperate,” Anderson said meekly.
Laurel stood at the end of the narrow corridor, half-leaning against the wall, gun held nonchalantly in his right hand. Left-handed, he lobbed the key to Anderson’s handcuffs onto the bed.
“Better make it last,” Laurel said gruffly, “And don’t take all fucking night.”
Anderson undid the cuff on his right wrist. As he stood up, Laurel took a pace back to allow Anderson free access to the en-suite, gun pointing vaguely at Anderson’s midriff.
“Thanks,” Anderson said. “I guess I’m just a bit nervous...” He moved towards the door of the en-suite, nodding towards the TV, “Good film; lots of action.”
Laurel glanced beyond Anderson and towards the TV; just for an instant, Anderson thought to adjust his plan, then the moment was past. Laurel moved to his left to lounge against the wall, and Anderson pushed open the door to the shower and toilet. He had tried closing it once but that apparently was against the rules, so Anderson had worked hard to develop a nervous whistle – something which proved useful when he had earlier unscrewed the showerhead. Lighter than he’d hoped, it was still the best weapon he could come up with.
Even before the first few tuneless notes of his musical accompaniment had ended, Anderson was back through the open en-suite door, showerhead arcing round for a classic uppercut to Laurel’s chin. Plastic and chrome shattered, and Laurel staggered back, eyes shocked and confused, his only sound a dull groan. Anderson pressed home his advantage, knowing at any second McDowell could be on his way. His left hand grasped Laurel’s gun arm, wrenching it up, desperately forcing the pistol to point away from his body; his right hand, still grasping the remains of the showerhead, swept down a second, then a third time, striking Laurel’s forehead just above his nose. Laurel slumped to the floor, unconscious, gun clattering down beside him
Anderson hadn’t time to worry as to what he had done – this wasn’t a game, something with rules or an agreed code of behaviour, this was his life that was on the line. He grabbed Laurel’s gun and pulled open the bedroom door, taking a quick glance up and down the dimly-lit corridor. It was empty, although as he watched a light flickered on from the room opposite, a warning that Laurel’s demise hadn’t gone completely unheard.
Anderson’s room was closest to the central building, and it was some thirty yards along the corridor to the fire exit, a red warning light winking ominously above the door. Anderson backed quickly towards the exit. Suddenly, light spilled out into the corridor as a room door opened, and Anderson instinctively loosed off a warning shot, no specific target in mind. Back-first, he crashed against the push bar and the exit door sprang open, the shriek of the security alarm sounding out its warning.
Anderson turned immediately left, sprinting as fast as he could towards the fence; instantly a security light blazed out to show him the way forward. Flat open farmland would hardly help Anderson’s cause and he was convinced the mudflats of the Wash were his only hope: if King John could lose his baggage train and crown jewels there, then one man should easily evade capture. If eventually he could get to a phone, then he would take the gamble and call the authorities – Anderson felt he now had little choice.
The glare from the security light quickly faded, and the fence was now just a few yards ahead. Abruptly, Anderson sensed a dark figure away to his right, and he pivoted around, almost slipping, gun hand wavering uncertainly.
“Mike! It’s Charlie!”
Anderson struggled to comprehend, but then all at once it made perfect sense – the cavalry had arrived, just slightly lacking in numbers.